My correspondence regarding my summer plans was varied, and the
suggestions contained therein numerous. Here are some of the letters.
Diana's:
Darling Betty,--What do you say to the Cornish coast, coves, cream, and
children! As much of the coast and cream, and as little of the children
as you like! David has a bachelor shoot in view, and I think sea air
would do the children good. I do not propose leaving any nurses at home,
or sending them away; they shall all come and run after Sara should she
get into the sea, when she ought not to, but you and I will have the joy
of watching her. She really is delicious paddling. Think of the
rocks, and the coves, and the sands, and not of the wind or of other
disadvantages that may strike you. As much as you like you shall read,
and whatever you like, so long as you will, at intervals, look up and
smile at me. I shall love to feel you are there, so do come, not as a
professional aunt, as you sometimes describe yourself, but as your own
dear self.
Your loving
DIANA
Zerlina's:
Dearest Betty,--I know how difficult you are to find disengaged, but do
try and come to Cornwall with us. The children would love to have you,
and I know you enjoy tearing about after them on the sands! Nurse must
go home for her holiday, and the nursery-maid is so useless. But you
shall do exactly as you like. I know you wouldn't mind if I left you
for a day or two. Jim is so keen that I should go to the Cross-Patches,
being in the neighborhood, more or less. Do write and say you will come.
I do get such headaches at the seaside, and I look so awful when I get
sun burnt, but it suits you.
Yours,
ZERLINA
Julia's:
Betty dear,--You have simply got to come. Diana tells me she is asking
you to Cornwall, and that, I know, you will not refuse, because for
some extraordinary reason you can't refuse her anything. Oh! for Diana's
charm for one day a week! What wouldn't I do! That woman wastes her
life; I've always said so. But go to Cornwall, blazes, or anywhere you
like, but come here on your way back--everywhere is on the way back from
Cornwall. Because the house is to be full of William's friends and he
is never perfectly at ease unless there is a bishop among them, and a
bishop drives me to desperate deeds of wickedness. They always like me!
Betty, in your capacity of professional something, think of me. I want
helping more than any one. I don't ask you to give up Cornwall, but
afterwards, don't disappoint your
JULIA.
A girl's:
Dear Miss Lisle,--I wonder if you will remember me. I am almost afraid
to hope so. But I met you last summer at the Anstells' garden-party,
and you passed me an ice, vanilla and strawberry mixed! I have never
forgotten it. It was not so much passing the ice, lots of people did
that, as the way you did it. I was very unhappy at the time, and there
was something in your expression as you did it that made me feel you
were unlike any one else I had ever met. I wore green muslin!
I am wondering whether you would come to Cornwall, to stay with us.
The coast is lovely, and in its wildness one can forget one's self,
and that, I think, is what one most wants to do! I know what a help you
would be to me, if you could come, and I will tell you all my troubles
when we have been together some days. One gets to know people by the sea
very quickly, I think, don't you? Although I feel as if I had known you
all my life. My hat was brown, mushroom.
Your sincere friend and admirer,
VERONICA VOKINS
P. S.--I forgot to say that my father and mother will be delighted to
see you. I have ten brothers and sisters, but there is miles of coast,
and I and my five sisters have a sitting-room all to ourselves. Father
says "he" must pass his examinations first. I tell you this because you
will then understand. "He" won the obstacle race at the Anstells', but
he was in a sack, so I expect you did not notice him!
The big, sad Thomas:
Dear Miss Lisle,--For months, in fact since the day you restored the
screw to my small son, I have been trying to write to you on a subject
that may or may not be distasteful to you. That it will come as a
surprise I feel sure. My love for my boy must be my excuse; nothing else
could justify my writing to any woman as I am about to write to you.
Will you be a mother to my Thomas? It would not be honest on my part
to pretend that I can offer you in myself anything but a very sad and
lonely man, the best of me having gone. No one could ever,--or shall
ever, take the place of my beloved wife in my heart, the remains of
which I offer unreservedly to you. For the sake of my boy I am prepared
to sacrifice myself, and I can at least promise you that you shall never
regret by any action of mine whatever sacrifice it may entail on your
part. I shall not insult you by the mention of money matters or any such
things, for I feel sure that the fact of my being a rich man will make
no difference in your decision as to whether or no you will be a mother
to my Thomas.
Yours very sincerely,
THOMAS GLYNNE
Lady Glenburnie's:
Dear Betty,--If you should be in the North,--and why not make a
certainty of it?--don't forget us! A line to say when and where to meet
you is all we want, and you will find the warmest of welcomes awaiting
you, and your own favorite room in the turret. Don't mention nephews or
nieces in answering this.
Your affectionate
MARY GLENBURNIE
Brother Archie's:
Angel Betty,--Help a brother in distress. I'm desperately in love. First
of all,--how long do you suppose it will last? Forever, I think. But I
can't live at this pitch for long, and my summer plans depend on it. She
is lovely. Makes me long to sing hymns on Sunday evenings; you know
the kind of thing--feeling, I should say! She's like Pauline, only more
beautiful, I think. I will tell you all about it when we meet. There are
complications. My first trouble is this: I have taken a small place in
Skye with Coningsby. Now it is perfectly impossible to live with Con
when one is in love; of all the unsympathetic, dried-up old crabs, he
is the worst. Now the question is, can I buy him out? Have you to stay
instead, ask my beloved too, save her from drowning, which in Skye
should be easy, and then live happily ever afterwards. I am consumed
with a desire to save her from something. It is a symptom, I know, but,
Betty dear, it is serious this time. Her eyes look as if they saw into
another world, which makes me feel hopeless! I don't mind you hinting
something about it to Julia, if you should see her. You needn't enter
into details!
Yours ever,
ARCHIE
Of all the letters, Diana's was the most tempting.
Zerlina's had no power to lure. Dear Archie's little--he had so often
written the same--sort of letters. Veronica Vokins' less, and the sad,
big Thomas! What a curious letter! I hardly knew whether to laugh or to
cry. How careful he was to point out the sacrifice on his part entailed
in his offer. It was hardly flattering to me, except that he refrained
from mentioning his worldly goods, or the advantages to me accruing from
the bestowal thereof. I had at least looked unworldly when I had visited
the small Thomas in bed; of that I was glad. And, after all, why should
I mind? It is something, perhaps, to be asked to be a mother to a small
fat Thomas. I wrote, refusing as kindly as I could. I dare say there are
women who would accept the position. Let us hope, if one be found to do
so, that she will not forget the mother part!
Dear Lady Glenburnie's letter had something of temptation lurking in
it somewhere. The turret room, commanding its views of purple hills and
sunsets, and the warmest of welcomes! But, again, the most aching of
memories. I could not go there again under circumstances so different.
If ever it could be again as it had been, how I should love it! So that
invitation I declined, saying I should be in Cornwall with Diana. Lady
Glenburnie would forgive the mention of Diana, I knew, and of Betty,
Hugh, and Sara I said nothing, as she had stipulated.
Then I wrote to Julia saying I would go to her after I had been to
Cornwall. She might need consoling by then, should Archie have proved
himself recovered of the wounds inflicted by her. This I did not tell
her. If I waited a little, there might be nothing to tell.